“Dee?”
She startled, swore, even as she hiccoughed through another clutch of tears.
There was a pause, then, “Sorry. I just—you’d been in there a long time. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she snapped, more annoyed with herself, with her uncustomary and very frustrating inability to find an answer. She’d never once questioned who she was, what she was meant to do. She felt lost in a way she’d never been in her entire life, and as it became more and more clear that it wasn’t simply going to figure itself out, the reality of that possibility terrified her. “I’m fine. I’m always fine.” Horrified, instead of the anger giving her a handhold on finding her control, she felt fresh tears rising.
He opened the door a crack. “Maybe that used to be true. But you’re not fine now, Dee,” he said quietly but with an edge to his tone. “You need to get it out, talk it out, something. Keeping it bottled up isn’t working. You’re running yourself right into the ground.”
She didn’t respond, couldn’t, not because he wasn’t right, but because he was. And it unraveled what little control she had left.
“What you say to me stays with me, stays right here. I won’t tell Grace, I won’t go behind your back to try and fix it. I’ll just listen.” He paused, waiting.
Tears were already streaming down her face, and she had to work not to fold over in two and let the sobs take over. She was so tired. Just so . . . tired.
“Deal?” he said, when she hadn’t replied.
She tried to tell him to go away, to let her finish her shower, give her time to get her shit together. Ten more minutes and this would pass. She would find a way to be the strong, solid, always-in-control Delia everyone knew her to be, counted on her to be. Instead one sob escaped, then another.
A second later the curtain was being ripped back, and she couldn’t find the breath to so much as squeak in surprise, much less order Ford to get the hell out. And then he was in the shower with her, fully clothed, and not caring, pulling her into his arms, keeping her there, with the hot water beating down on her back as he tucked her face against his chest. She didn’t even try to fight him, was too far gone to be mortified—it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before and she couldn’t bring herself to care enough to be embarrassed.
If he’d said a single word, she—she didn’t know what she might have done. But he didn’t. He didn’t try to soothe her or stop her crying or sympathize, or . . . anything. He just held her, so strong, tall, sturdy . . . all the things she wasn’t at the moment, so she could finally, safely, utterly, fall apart.
Chapter 8
There was nothing remotely sexual, much less arousing, about holding a naked, sobbing woman in his arms. And yet, his heart was thundering so hard it was all he could hear, even with the shower pounding down on them.
He’d heard that first sob, like someone had reached down inside her and ripped a vital part of her out, and had simply reacted. He wanted to be annoyed with her for pushing herself so hard, to the breaking point physically and, worse, it seemed, emotionally.
He wanted to be angry as hell, but what he felt was . . . something very close to fear. Not the kind that happened when his life was in jeopardy. That kind of fear he actually knew how to handle. But this . . . this was precisely the kind of fear he’d buried himself out on that island in order to avoid. The fear of caring, the fear of being needed, then not being enough, of doing the wrong thing . . . or worse, doing all that he knew how to do, only to find it wasn’t enough. Failing. Failing someone who mattered.
He didn’t want to care. Didn’t want to feel . . . anything.
So . . . why was he standing, fully clothed, in Delia O’Reilly’s ancient claw-foot tub, getting soaked, while holding her as she sobbed her heart out? What had possessed him to think that was a good idea? For either of them?
Grace’s face chose that inopportune moment to flash into his mind. Not thirty-two-year-old Grace, but five-year-old Grace smiling through tears as she waved him off to war. Then nine-year-old Grace, clutching at him, scared, as he explained that he couldn’t stay, that he had to go back, that she’d be better off without him. That was who he was, what he’d done with the person who had mattered most to him.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the cavalcade of guilt that rushed through him, threatening to crush him, squeeze his heart to a standstill, every time he let his mind go there. What the hell made him think he’d do any better this time?
The water started to turn cool, mercifully pulling him from that mental path. He had no idea how to go from where they stood, to getting her out, dry, and dressed, in a way that was anything less than awkward. But what the hell, Maddox, you’re in it now.
At some point, the sobs had quieted to hiccoughs and raw, catching breaths, but she still had her face buried in his chest. He lifted one sodden, booted foot to toe-nudge the white porcelain handles off so the water stopped, all while keeping her naked form pressed against him with a strong arm around her back. He let go with one arm long enough to shove open the curtains an inch, reach out, and grab for one of the thick, green towels that hung on big silver-and-white porcelain hooks that had been screwed into the whitewashed plank wall.
He wrapped it around her from the back, and nudged her away just enough so that she could grab the corners and wrap it around the rest of her. He grabbed another towel for her hair, and then had no real idea what to do with it. He could hardly rub at her curls like one would a family pet.
“Ford, I—”
“Shhh,” he said, reflexively. Her throat had to be raw, the words were so hoarse. But he’d quieted her as much because he wasn’t ready for whatever she was going to say as he did to save her the pain of talking.
“I’ll—let me step—” She stopped, keeping her chin down, her hair dripping in a dark, auburn halo around her downcast face.
He helped her step out of the tub, then lamely handed her the other towel. “Your hair,” he muttered.
She took it, but didn’t look at him. Her breath was still hitching badly, and he doubted she was enjoying any part of this, either.
“You’re . . . soaked,” she managed. “Towels. You need—”
“Just—will you be okay to go change? Can I do something, get something—?”
“I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t challenge her on that point. She wasn’t, and neither was he, but that wasn’t what was being debated at the moment. “Okay. Go change . . . I’ll take care of me.” That, at least, he knew he could do.
She nodded, hiccoughed again, and clutched the spare towel to her chest, where she was still clutching the towel closed around her body with her other hand. Hair dripping, she moved to the bathroom door, which still stood open from when Ford had barged in. “I . . . thank you,” she said, without looking back.
“Anytime,” he said lamely, telling himself to be thankful it hadn’t been any more awkward than that. Then, as the door closed behind her, he looked down at his soaking wet self and thought, Well, maybe there’s still some awkward to get through.
Just as he’d convinced himself it was best if he simply took his soaking wet self back to the foundation offices to change, giving Delia some time and space to regroup, there was a knock on the door.
“I—here’s some clothes. I put them by the door. Sweatpants, T-shirt, old hoodie.” Her voice was deep, hoarse, and he could hear the embarrassment. “They were Tommy’s,” she added. “I—I don’t know why I kept them—but he always wore things three sizes too big, so . . . anyway.”
“Thank you,” Ford said. Yep, not done with the awkward. There was no sign of Delia when he opened the door and snagged the neatly folded stack. Unbidden, memories snuck back in and flash-bombed him as he dragged off his wet clothes, and dragged on dry ones. Nine-year-old Grace, mortally wounded Tommy, grief-stricken Delia . . . Too many memories. Maybe he still needed Sandpiper more than he realized. He felt like being here in the Cove was sucking him back in, back to where he’d been in his life when he’d f
irst arrived. He didn’t want that, couldn’t do that.
In the past thirteen years, he’d learned that while physical wounds could and did heal, some of the emotional ones never would. He’d also learned he did still have something useful to offer, and where best to offer it. But maybe that best place was only on Sandpiper. The longer he was in the Cove, the harder it was to pretend otherwise.
He might want to help her, but the bottom line was, even thirteen years later, Delia O’Reilly still deserved better than him.
She was in her tiny kitchen, in front of the infamous percolator, when he came back downstairs. He’d put his wet clothes in the trash bag she’d left under the stack of dry clothes and had set that and his wet boots on the front porch on his way to the kitchen. “I’ll get the clothes back to you,” he said.
She startled at the sound of his voice, bobbled the old tin coffeepot, and then set it gently on the heating pad she’d placed on the small table positioned in front of the bay window. The far side of the table was pushed up so the base of the curved window formed a bench seat for two, while two additional chairs had been pushed in on the near side.
Ford glanced around, noting that the kitchen appliances had been updated at some point since he’d been there for Tommy’s funeral, but everything else still looked as he remembered it, from the glass front cabinets, with the old red metal door handles, to the wood trim, all painted white, as were the drawers and cabinets built in below the counter. The countertop had been updated from when the house had first been built, but still pre-dated him by a good twenty to thirty years. It was blue-and-silver speckled linoleum, the white background having long since yellowed from years of use, with the occasional cracked edge and peeled-up corner showing the plank wood underneath.
The curtains over the sink and framing the bay window were different, brighter, a cheerful blue-and-white checkerboard pattern, with yellow flowers, bright green leaves, and ladybugs stitched all along the bottom edge. He wasn’t sure what he’d have guessed as being Delia’s personal style, but the ladybugs and flowers wouldn’t have been his first choice. They definitely brightened up the place but, though charming, seemed unnecessary, given the energy and life force that always emanated from her in a seemingly inextinguishable flow.
Or perhaps that was just how she was at the diner, feeding off the energy of those she cooked for. Maybe here was where she recharged that endless supply, and she needed fanciful, black polka-dotted bugs and yellow daisies to help her do it.
At the moment, whatever energy she might have left was subdued, at best, and his concern for her returned front and center. Because whatever she was going through, it was going to take a lot more than time spent staring at embroidered curtains to build herself back up again.
He looked back at Delia. She was dressed in dark blue, comfortable slacks and a pale blue polo shirt with the name of the diner stitched over the pocket in red, in the same font and style as the signage for the place. There was no actual uniform for the diner that he’d ever seen. Actually, he could only recall the youngsters she hired for the summer crush wearing the polo shirts and slacks combo. The guys in the kitchen wore the traditional white jackets, black pants, but nothing stiff or starchy.
Peg favored floral dresses, style-appropriate to her age, which was somewhere between sixty and, well, he didn’t rightly know. She paired them with fifties-style white aprons that had her name stitched over one bountiful bosom, and kept her dyed chestnut hair pulled up in a small bun near the crown of her head, always tucked under a little net with lacy trim, usually with something festive tucked into the bun on a stick. On anyone else that affectation would look silly, but on Peg, he’d always thought they looked just right. Like her boss, she always had a knowing smile, advice whether requested or not, and a way about her that made her feel like family, both the kind you loved and the kind that occasionally made you wish you had a different last name. She reminded him of the housekeeper on that old TV show he’d seen as a child: Hazel.
Back when he’d regularly spent time at the diner, Delia usually wore khakis, whatever blouse she’d pulled out of her closet, and a kitchen apron knotted around her hips and a kerchief tied around her neck. He knew she tied her hair up in it when she cooked or did kitchen duty, knew her crew called her Lucy, and had always been privately amused by that. Both she and the famous character might have had red hair, but the similarity ended there. Lucy Ricardo was something of a shortsighted klutz, and the Delia O’Reilly he knew was anything but.
“They fit,” she said.
He realized Delia was staring at him expectantly. He looked down at the clothes he was wearing. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Tommy wouldn’t like it that I kept some of his stuff; he’d have seen it as maudlin.” She didn’t smile, but honest affection warmed her red-rimmed eyes. “He’d be happy knowing he did something for you, though. He thought the sun rose and set by you.” She lifted the mug she was holding, “One sugar, no cream, right?
He jerked his gaze from her face, from the slippery slope of memories to the coffee. “I—yes. Good memory.”
“Just doing my job,” she said, quickly turning back to the counter.
He took a seat at the table, nursed his first sip, and thought his eyes might roll straight up into his head because he’d surely just died and gone to coffee heaven. “This is . . .” There were no words, so he took another sip instead, and thought he might have groaned.
She spared him a quick glance. “Told you so.”
He was relieved to hear the thread of wry humor in her tone. She wasn’t one for wearing a lot of makeup, just the basics, but even to his untrained male eyes, in just that quick glance he could see she’d put some effort into trying to mask the ravages of her crying jag. He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to do that around him, that he understood and accepted her as she was: human. Then he took in the whole outfit again, and realized she hadn’t tried to improve her looks for his benefit. “You’re not taking the morning off.” He didn’t make it a question.
She finished stirring a dollop of real cream into her coffee, then finally turned and leaned back against the counter, meeting his gaze for the first time since she’d clambered off the couch. “I have work to do. Peg can run the front and I can catch up on some paperwork before taking the afternoon shift. I also need to call Blue and reschedule, since I’ll be working. I’d send Charlie, as I trust his judgment with the daily catch, but he’s off, so . . .” She lifted a shoulder, her expression implacable, as if it were simply the way it had to be. No discussion.
Since it wasn’t his life, it wasn’t his call, so he didn’t offer an objection she most certainly wouldn’t want to hear anyway. Even if he felt that holding her while she fell completely apart due to stress, exhaustion, and who knew what else might have at least earned him the right to offer some advice on the subject. Fat lot of good that would do.
“What brought you over last night?” she asked, sounding for all the world as if that scene up in her shower had never happened, or the one on her front walk the night before, for that matter.
But the way her blue eyes bored into his said otherwise, as if she was still trying to hold on to him, to something stronger, sturdier than herself, and using any conversational gambit she could grab hold of as a way to do it.
He’d promised her several times now that she could talk to him, open up to him about what had turned her so upside down and inside out. Perhaps the best way to do that was to let her steer the course to getting them there.
“Grace is worried about you,” he said, without preamble. On the one hand, he hated to pile on when she was obviously in an overwhelmed place, but he didn’t want her blindsided by his sister’s well-meaning actions, either.
“I know she is,” Delia said quietly. “Everyone is worried about what’s going to happen with the diner. I wish I had an answer for them. I just . . . need some time.”
“Grace thinks what you need is a party.”
Delia al
l but spit her sip of coffee back in her cup. “She—what? Why?”
“She thinks you need to see that the people in the Cove are behind you and will support you. She thinks something public like that will also make Winstock and the mayor see that they’re messing with a local icon. I guess it’s really more rally than party, but her intentions are good.”
“And so you’re, what? Warning me? Why?”
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I mean, it’s a solid approach. But only if . . .” He trailed off, unsure if he should be the one to put it out on the table, and risk putting her on the defensive, which could very well make her clam up. Jesus, you still suck at this.
“But only if what?” she asked.
He looked up from where he’d been contemplating the flat, black surface of his coffee, as if there were answers to be found in its aromatic depths. He looked at her standing there, spine straight, still pretending she hadn’t just had a complete emotional breakdown not fifteen minutes ago. All prepped and ready to step back into the fray, without resolving a single damn thing that had gotten her into that state to begin with.
“Only if saving the diner is what you really want to do. Grace says you’re not fighting Winstock because you don’t want the diner. That you don’t know what you want to do.”
Delia didn’t so much as blink. If anything, her eyes went flat, and he swore he could see her pulling her battle armor more tightly around her with every blow. Or every perceived one, anyway.
Ford set his coffee mug down and straightened in his chair. This was what he’d been hoping to avoid, but he wasn’t convinced it hadn’t been the right thing to do. He wasn’t sure she’d ever open up about what was eating away at her if he didn’t reach in and grab it out of her.
“I guess sibling bonds trump friendship confidences,” Delia said tightly.
Ford frowned. “That’s unfair. She’s worried about you. Deeply worried. Grace is loyal, to a fault. You know that better than anyone. She only came to me because she thought it was the only way to help you. You can trust her, Dee.” He would have added that she could trust him, too, but that wasn’t necessary now. She’d trusted him with quite enough already that day. Either she knew her instincts about him were right, or she didn’t.
Sandpiper Island (The Bachelors Page 12
